


Only A Holmes Could Know

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied Incest, Incest, M/M, Parentlock, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 19:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft arrives home to a crying baby and an unexpected trip down memory lane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only A Holmes Could Know

Mycroft Holmes arrived home after a long, harrowing day running most of the free world to find his younger brother covered in food, hair a mess, and near tears.

 

Twenty years ago, he might not have been surprised. Now, not so much.

 

He sighed as he set down his brolly, the loud, anguished cry of their son piercing the air like a razor. "Oh, brilliant," he muttered, sighing as he made his way into the sitting room, whereupon he found Sherlock on the couch, cradling the screaming child in his arms and looking more frazzled than he had ever seen him. "Brother dearest," he murmured, taking a set next to Sherlock after slipping off his jacket and placing it gingerly on the back of the sofa. "Rough day, my sweets?" he said coolly, leaning over to kiss Sherlock's cheek in-between the splashes of sweat and what looked to be unwanted baby food, then reaching down to cradle their son's head in his hands, the baby's ginger hair peeking out in-between Mycroft's long, delicate fingers. The child continued to scream, though a little quieter than when Sherlock had been alone.

 

"Obviously," Sherlock snapped in retaliation to his older brother's question. "He's been screaming all day. How do I turn it off?"

 

Mycroft chuckled, then took the baby from Sherlock's arms and held him close, carefully adjusting him so that his small head was placed delicately over Mycroft's left shoulder. "I seem to recall saying the same thing about you," he said lightly, gently patting their son's back in an attempt to calm him. The young boy's screams began to subside, replaced by stuttered cries and high-pitched whimpers, then a hiccup and a soft burp. "Good boy," Mycroft cooed, "And, Sherlock; in fact, I remember this exact thing happening when you were little."

 

Mycroft allowed his mind to drift back to when he and Sherlock had first become acquainted, a little more than thirty-six years prior. It had been a warm weekend in September, with Sherlock little more than two months old. He recalled Mummy had been off at some party, leaving both Mycroft and his younger brother with the apathetic next-door neighbor as a babysitter. She'd ignored the two of them after their mother left, skirting around her babysitting duties in favour of watching a bit of trash telly. When Mycroft had heard the baby cry (he'd been hearing a lot of Sherlock's crying lately) he'd expected that Stacy would take care of it. No such luck, he had later realised as the baby's cries continued to go unheard. The seven-year-old had mustered up his nerve and rushed to the nursery, intent on helping his younger brother, at least somewhat. He may not have asked for Sherlock (he asked for a puppy, actually), but that didn't mean that he could just ignore him when he was loud or hungry or upset. It just wasn't done. Caring was their advantage, Mummy had said.

 

He'd approached the child's crib, half-fearful, half-determined, and peered over the side. Sherlock had been crying quite loudly, obviously, but now the cries had dropped to pitiful whimpers, as he thought no one was there to pay attention. "I'm here," he remembered saying, "I'm here, don't cry, 'Lock." He recalled picking up the child and holding him, and once he looked into those pale, bright, innocent eyes, he'd instantly felt a love for his little brother like he'd never felt before.

 

"Mycroft," Sherlock's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Do you hear anything?"

 

"No," the government official replied, noting with disdain that Sherlock had elected to clean off his face and hands with his elder brother's expensive coat. "Though I suspect that's a good thing, is it not? He's stopped crying."

 

"Hmph. I suppose he has," Sherlock looked at his son, the way he was currently pressing his face into the crook of Mycroft's neck, a gaze of intense love and fierce adoration, and the ginger smiled. He imagined that was the look that had come across his face when he'd first held Sherlock. "Do you see now," he said, casually leaning forward to peck Sherlock on the lips. "That is what I have been trying to explain to you all these years. That feeling, what you are feeling right now; that is what Mummy meant when she said that caring is our advantage."

 

"I thought caring wasn't an advantage," the consulting detective remarked, reaching out to gently stroke the tufts of ginger hair poking out from between Mycroft's fingers.

 

"Sherlock," Mycroft chided, a smug smile on his face, "You of all people should know when I am faking an emotion for other people."

 

"Hm." the younger Holmes humphed, "So caring is an advantage?"

 

"Caring about the right people, yes," Mycroft replied, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

 

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, leaning up against Mycroft's free shoulder and shutting his eyes. "He cried so much today. How did you fix it?"

 

"I raised you, remember?" the government official replied, "I know how a Holmes baby's brain works."

 

"Smug." Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes (though Mycroft suspected it was in good nature).

 

"Arrogant." Mycroft sniped back, smiling as their son yawned and let his small, bright green eyes fall shut.

 

"Do shut up, brother dear," the brunette sighed, echoing his son's yawn. He was utterly and completely exhausted."

 

Mycroft sneered, then thought better of arguing with his little brother. Instead, the pair sat in silence, connected merely by the sounds of their breaths syncing together in a rhythm only a Holmes could know.


End file.
